


The Art of Daguerrotypy

by whiskerbeast



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Photographs, Photography
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-03
Updated: 2011-12-03
Packaged: 2017-10-26 19:59:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/287285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskerbeast/pseuds/whiskerbeast
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave takes a lot of pictures of John, though this is news to Rose, as he seems takes a lot of pictures of everything.  Prompted by crowry wanting a fic of John-centric photography.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Daguerrotypy

_A photograph is usually looked at—seldom looked into._  
—Ansel Adams

You have always known that Strider has a propensity for the photographic arts. It should not have come as a surprise to you then when, while indulging a fit of indomitable curiosity, you find his photographs to be quite…illuminating. In fact, they are more than illuminating—they are as an enlightenment to your formerly stunted awareness, and not because of their excellent framing and artful development. That, of course, plays a role, but the truly notable factor in the clothesline full of fiber-based photographic paper is that every picture is of John.

“Oh, Dave,” you murmur, reaching out to skim the edge of a picture with a finger, careful not to bother it. He would absolutely throttle you if you ruined a photograph, nevermind the impact it would have on his cool guy gambit, and you know how much more delicate the fiber-based paper is than the stuff he’s used to using. He’s been complaining about how easily it curls since he started working with it a few weeks ago, despite your constant assurance that he would get used to the new medium quickly enough. You also have a feeling that the pictures at hand mean much more to him than his usuals. It’s just a feeling, but you do know when to trust your gut.

Pulling your eyes away from the drying photographs, you scan his desk, finding another small pile of them. Most of these are also of John, with a good handful of you and Jade—he has a tendency to pick ones where you’re smiling, you notice in mild amusement—and you observe a trend developing. He tries to catch John when he’s grinning, likely in mid-sentence or watching a movie. Most of the time he’s not even looking at the camera, though the frame is set so the eye goes to the way his hair sticks out over his forehead, the line of his neck, or his nose. Careful focal points that start to say more about the person taking the picture than the object of focus.

A few shots stick out from this pattern, all of them ones where John is looking in Dave’s direction, surprised or befuddled. His eyes, you notice, are very blue, and you find yourself quite in envy of his eyelashes. He is certainly not handsome, but you do notice things about his face you hadn’t cared to see before, and you can see very quickly why someone would be enamored of a visage like his. Always full of light and life, hair tousled and eyes bright, a smile ever tugging at the edges of his lips. It is, beyond question, a beautiful person who lives behind a face like that. You already knew this, but Dave has demonstrated it to you more precisely than you could have yourself. Respect swells in your heart.

You close the door carefully behind you, eyes darting down the hall to make sure no one has seen your exit. You were careful to leave the room as undisturbed as possible, placing the stack of developed pictures in the exact place you found them, careful not to brush any of the still setting ones on your way out. If you’ve been successful, Dave will be none the wiser, though this certainty—for you were very careful indeed—knots in your gut. Your brother has never been much for candid emotional displays, so you know the thing you have just witnessed is not only hugely personal, but also highly unusual for him. You’ve never questioned why he has aligned himself with photography, it has simply been a fact of the universe since the four of you returned from the game. He has his photos, you have delved further into the literary realms, Jade has buried herself in travel and botany, and John…well, John is finding a place to put himself, which is better than the unnervingly present and appealing option of catatonia.

Nevertheless, none of it has ever struck you as strange. Even though Dave has spent more time in Washington sleeping on John’s couch than seems entirely logical, your assumption had been that he and John were finding solace in each other’s presence. All of you have been through a great, hideous trial, and though Jade takes comfort in new places and you find your heart singing for the written word more than ever, you supposed that the other two might not be coping as well. Nothing about this new knowledge has proved you wrong, exactly, only shifted your understanding of the situation into realms you haven’t quite considered.

Your anxiety grows, twisting blackly as you pad into the room you share with Jade when you all bother Dave for accommodations. How would John react to this if he knew? Does he know? You can’t claim to know much of anything, you realize, your lack of involvement in their romantic lives dawning on you abruptly. It’s not as though you haven’t imagined relationships developing among your quartet—to an extent, it would be the expected conclusion to such trauma—but you had mostly assumed you would all be safe from the throes of red romance after several years had passed without incident. In fact, you’ve had quite the confessed problem finding anyone interesting outside your small circle of friends, and none of the other three has drawn any particular flushed feeling from you. You had started to assume that the others were in the same boat. One does not simply fall in love after what you have been through, you supposed.

“Wrong again, Miss Lalonde,” you murmur to yourself, sitting on the edge of your bed. The apartment is silent, a fact for which you are grateful. Jade and Dave are out hunting for groceries, though Jade has likely gotten distracted by now, and John is napping. The relative calm of the afternoon is what had spurred you into your brief reconnaissance mission. Now you are questioning the wiseness of such a move. Here you sit, burdened with knowledge you ought not to have, worrying at the inside of your lip over what will happen if-when John knows, if he already knows, if there is something happening between two of your best friends that you haven’t guessed at until 2:14 on an overly hot Sunday.

You conclude, after several long minutes, that it is none of your business. Dave has your silent blessing—that’s all you can give him unless he makes the decision to open up to someone. You try your hardest to accept this and move on. It doesn’t quite work, but at least you have managed not to become an entirely devoted meddler like a certain greenblooded friend of yours.

Your friends return a bit later, burdened with bags of things that Dave is claiming to be useless while Jade chirrups about the triumph of their mission. You’re rather inclined to agree with Dave, as none of you has much use for a garlic press at your collective point of everyone being terrible at cooking. You’ve all learned this the hard way. John shows promise, and you are trying to subtly encourage him to explore the culinary arts, but everything that comes off a stove in any of your houses tends to be macaroni and cheese or rice. One of you should probably learn how to cook sometime soon, considering the prevalence of shared meals between you. Though you spend a great deal of your time in different places, the occasions when your group coalesces are frequent almost to the point of stupidity. Actually, it has far surpassed the point of stupidity, as has almost everything else in your life of late, but you are quite willing to overlook such a fact in favor of your friends. You admit, you would miss them too much to bear were the visits to decrease in number.

John wakes up an hour later, stumbling into the communal area with his hair even more askew than usual, looking sleepy. Over the next few hours and, later, dinner—sandwiches, tortilla chips, and salsa—you watch Dave and John quietly, noting how much time the former spends with his shoulders or face turned in John’s direction. John glances at him occasionally, though you find it difficult to discern anything from this. It’s all fairly vague, actually, considering that most of Dave’s face is still constantly obscured by those ridiculous sunglasses.

There is a moment, though, when you are sure they make eye contact in some meaningful way. Obviously their time around each other has lead to physical cues you had not caught onto, ways to know what is going on in Dave’s head even through the layers of shades and facades, because John proceeds to twitch his lips into a smaller, quieter smile than you’ve seen him give and flush slightly. If you’re not mistaken, Strider’s cheeks have gone a little rouge-tinted, too.

Aha! You smile in triumph. Someone knows something, and things, it would seem, are not terrible for that fact. There is hope yet.

You catch them kissing later two days later.

  


**Author's Note:**

> Art by [C](http://bitterassfamine.tumblr.com)~


End file.
